I would like to introduce myself, and my predicament is as follows:
It involves social services who want to deduct my cheque for having inherited a small sum of money. Every penny of that went toward tools for self employment, I don�t believe they have a right to reduce the living allowance for my son and me.
I am writing to the Member of Parliament in the hope that I�ll find an advocate. Please read the enclosed short story for a clearer idea of my position.

Thank you.

I have been chronically poor since high school.
Not only have I been poor, I had no self-confidence and too much emotional baggage to deal with the world at large. I could never remember or understand the rules that people play by in the workforce and the system. All I wanted out of life was to reach my potential. As a child, I was to be an animal doctor, but my aspirations were squashed by the time I reached high school so I decided to reach my potential with my artistic skills, not having learned yet how to market myself.
We live in a culture that depends on mass-produced cheapness and I always had the idea that I could make changes in the cultural realm by using my art; however I did not come equipped with an outgoing personality. I was too shy to be one of those "go-getters".
I am someone who deserves the help I ask for. I have asked the welfare offices to help me get the kind of training I need: in the late 80's there was nothing available thru �manpower�, only secretarial and waitress or construction for the guys. In the early to mid 90's I�ve asked Social Services for help in a course of desktop publishing that was only available to UIC recipients. In the late 90's on the sunshine coast I heard about grants to start your own business, but again, I had to be on UIC. I�ve asked and asked this system that claims to want to help me get off of social assistance but they just keep humiliating me and helping me revert back to my shell where I just want to be left alone.
The last year of the grand cycle has arrived and lo and behold I received a modest inheritance of a thousand dollars and my mother gave me her old computer. I did not receive a grant, I cannot secure a loan, the ministry of labour and training had nothing that worked with my particular case. With my inheritance I bought a professional printer to go with my computer and I had enough money left over to buy a suitable car.
I finally get the hand-up I needed to finally get off of welfare but they want me to pay them the amount I�m entitled to. Why do they think I want to be poor? Why do they think I want to be a freeloader? I have a chance to make my dream reality but welfare has to mess up my life and make sure I remain dependent and downtrodden. I should be able to use my inheritance to its potential without having to use it just to pay my rent. It would be a different story if my grandfather left me 100,000. What I had to work with was small compared to what most people that have real jobs do with their money. I have been unable to procure a job that pays more than minimum wage and since becoming a mother have been unwilling to use up 70% of life just to pay some rich guy his mortgage. I am willing to work my butt off for my own mortgage but the banks have made sure that low wage earners can never get what they want. I do not want to waste my time dwelling on this letter when I could be printing ads for my friends who are also trying to have a real job. By real job I mean a job that pays more than minimum, a job that keeps up with the inflation, a job that the bank would accept as viable to buy our own place.
But my mental instability makes it hard for me.
The work I�m truly interested in is nonprofit. I can do secretarial type work and the reason I never liked it, aside from the social conventions, is that it�s usually part of the system of maintaining the cultural imbalance that contributes too much poverty all around the globe. I could do desk work if it�s for the right reasons: a nature center, a consciousness raising publication; my true forte is airbrushing T-shirts. The work I don�t mind doing for a low wage is the work that can�t afford to pay anything.
By the way, the notion that the Sunshine Coast has no work available is bogus because I see a lot of niches needing to be filled by artisans and entrepreneurs. The system of importing cheaply mass produced items has to end. The people need to be employed by providing their talents to the people, not the corporations that are owned by too few, too rich men. The ministry need perhaps look at what truly needs funding: volunteer coordinators at schools, cooks for school lunches, fundraising coordinators raise money for poor kids to get swimming-martial arts-dance-music-etc lessons.
I am worth helping because I want to help. I am not addicted to anything, I do not seek to harm anyone, I am not a freeloader nor am I a slave; I am a viable talented human being with ethics and honor.

Maybe if I write something I�ll find what to say. Let�s sit here for a few minutes while I think of what to say. My life feels . . . put it this way, if I was born in a little pre-industrial village I would be happy, for I would have had a place within the social structure. I wish I lived in a monastery, preferably Buddhist. I feel so useless in this world. I wish I never had to go on welfare. The meaning of life is not about working at minimum wage, it is not about pledging allegiance to a bunch of suit & tie wearing freeloaders, and it is not about money. Why does my view of my world appear so dismal and hopeless? I feel like I�m in a box and I have to be on the outside of it to open it. New ager sez: �so just go to the outside of the box, it�s as simple as that.� The problem I�m experiencing is encountered by many, but not by those yuppies that insist on the �path of least resistance.� I�m sure it�s true for a lot of people but that rule doesn�t seem to apply to me; I feel so fckd up. I�ve got a partner and a kid that are both cool yet I still cry. Everybody�s there at my show except me.
There�s a wonderful beautiful show and I�m not enjoying it because I either don�t have the right ticket or I�m not dressed right. That just reminded me of some dreams I�ve had about not fitting in . . . duh. . . obvious symbolism.
The media is always coming up with stories ( mostly for kids ) that are about not fitting in and being the odd one out until the hidden talent gets discovered to everyone�s benefit; how come it�s not like that in my world?

okay here we go, I�m trying to sort all the stuff I�m thinking about . . . welfare had cut me off because of inheriting a thousand bucks. We spent the whole month of February feeling depressed. We finally got our cheque in March, rent�s paid, and most of the bills got paid.

two big squishy round things
hugging and mushing about
slipping and jiggling.

You can laugh or you can be creeped out, but I like the way it feels to think of such things.

Hey!
I hope you get this card on Friday. Have you heard about e-mail cards? It�s weird. A friend from our martial arts class sent us one of a wolf howling. . .they move! What�s also weird is that my Dad sent me one the same week. He sent me a congratulations card for getting a car and printer. I sent him a card back of chinese cranes. How did I get the money? My grandpa died (he was 98!) Last fall and I ended up with my mom�s old computer (she got a super-duper new one) and a thousand dollars. So I got a fancy shmancy printer that can do poster(11x17) and card; then a neighbor put a stantion wagon up for sale for 300 bucks. It was an amazing feeling to actually have the money at the same time there�s a good deal. If you want to come, you can get picked up at the ferry by the conbon mobile! YAY!

Ok, now that life seems awesome over here . . . welfare cut off this month�s cheque. They thought it was unfair that I didn�t share my inheritance with them. While they were at it they phoned my landlord and found out that yes, Sloan�s Dad does live here. The worker said that we have to apply as a couple, so I asked, �even if he�s american?� she said yes. That doesn�t sound too bad. At least I won�t have to be alone anymore for welfare crap. Before we get our cheque we have to bring a copy of the will that my name isn�t even on; my Mom and her sister split some of the money amongts their kids so we each got 1000. I thought that was cool. I tried to tell my Mom that but she only heard the other stuff I said about her dumb husband not apologizing to me for threatening to punch me last year. I�ts been a whole year since I really saw my Mom. She came last December to bring her present to our kid and her old computer. And the money order that was my inheritance. She only stayed for 15 minutes because her dumb husband came all the way out here with her to wait at Wendy�s.
How�s everybody on your end? Say hi to yo mama fo me. And your nephew. Our kid remembers him. And Jaks. . . hey last night we saw a news thing about a man skate-boarding and getting hit by a car at Main & Hastings. Pass a bear hug to Simon for me.
I stopped and paused for a minute and that whole scene looked really far away. . . Carlos & T.A., Mike A., Craig, (toast)Amber-ger, Roland-rolled oats-Porridge. . . who else, oh a friend from Smithers knows Kynan.
I want to write funny stuff but nothing funny comes out. I�m trying to remember the stuff that made us laugh, shoplifting hordes of candy and comic books, getting drunk and acting goonygoon, giving spare change back(that actually was pretty funny), the Mentors(!!!), what the fuck, eh? I feel like I should be having one of those �midlife crisis� things I hear about but I�m still having the same struggle as high school. You were a witness to my authority-induced rage. It�s the same shit. I feel like a mouse in a box. The time we spent together was fun. I miss our philosophing (I think very deeply).

I try to be happy but every aspect of my life reminds me of my displaced feeling. It�s a real thing, this feeling of not belonging. I am talented but am useless anyway. My son gabbers and yammers but doesn�t say anything. He only talks of tv shows. I can�t blame him because that�s all he has . . . we don�t go to gatherings because my partner never feels like it.
Dictionary word picked at random: deceased. Goes with my feeling of what might happen. I feel like I�m dying. I want that premonition to go away.
I feel like that sparrow outside on the birdfeeder; it withstands extreme weather, it�s out there in the cold wind and rain and it�s ok. One swipe of a cat�s paw and it�s history.
When I�m alone, I slip into depression and welfare intensifies it. My mom listening to her abusive husband intensifies it.
Why does no one notice my mental illness? Is it because I�m so shy and afraid to be truthful?
People with physical scars get the help. People with hypochondria get help. People that waste all their money on drugs get help.
I�m on welfare because I�m fckd up. I�m fckd up because I�ve been screwed.
Everyone that caused me harm are all financially well off.
I am so angry.

Dear mom,
you say I have to let go of my anger, my memories and the subsequent events that were shaped by that which caused me so much grief. Yes, I would like to let go, but the knife that cuts the binding cord is in the form of respect; if I receive the understanding I deserve along with apologies from the male guilty parties, my spirit may again soar like it did before, when I was a kid in the summertime and I sat in my tree, contented.
Before my twelfth year.
Before my teen years were ruined.
I was always a moody child, but what happened to me when I was twelve shouldn�t happen to anyone. What happened to me was set me on a path of self-defeat and self-hatred for the next twenty years.
All I ask is the same respect you�ve given to anyone but me. You don�t have to understand me, just understand that what happened so long ago was a momentous turning point in your daughter�s life and she had to suffer alone.

Why am I mad at twenty year old shit? Because my chronic poverty and inability to cope are direct results of that twenty year old shit.

A couple starts making out at a gathering. Their love making escalates and becomes fervent, so much so that they�ve attracted attention. Soon they are surrounded by a circle of people watching. As they reach their mutual climax, the atmosphere in the room changes, seems denser. Then the explosion, a ring of after-shock, just like an atomic bomb, it radiates from the nucleus outwards across the gathered crowd. Each person feels the wave and experiences an odd sensation.
Far out, man.

The illusion one gets of oneself as one grows up

The illusion becomes focussed so that one can see the imperfections of said illusion:
I thought I was in an impenetrable box, but as I grew older the walls became clearer and I realized that they were just cheap wood. The perpetrators each had a hand in nailing the boards over my framework, but they used cheap wood and crappy nails.
Some people�s frameworks would be open with vines growing around. Others are all boarded up with little peepholes. Still another would be an impenetrable brick bunker.
The symbolism of comparing souls to human constructions. Most souls are a combination of boards, windows and assorted decorations.

"How do you heal yourself?" She asked. I said, first, you have to want to heal yourself.

The world has to want to heal. The media has to show images that promote healing. They have to stop showing things like �911" or �real life�. Bang bang. Fckn cowboys. That�s what I think america takes itself for, a frontier town full of fckn cowboys that are full of pride and prejudice. Guns didn�t really take hold of world culture until the colonization of america.
America even has a department of tobaccy, likker and firearms.
Booze and guns.
Real intelligent.
Stupid overproud morons.

What is Durga praying for now? I want to write but it�s getting too vague, complicated and silly.

The time comes when what was once the future has come round again.

The cries of White Buffalo Woman were once few and far between. They spoke of a time I only dreamed of, when the majority know the Truth, and the few are willing to listen. Artists are the canaries in coal mines. We notice the injustices before most. That is our job.
We have to alert the others who cannot notice.
What happens to the canaries when we no longer need coal? They must be allowed to come to the surface to live in daylight and no longer be the voice of warning.
They sing for the love of it and no one watches them for signs of death.
One day we will all be canaries. We will all feel the need to change and will no longer need external warnings.

Later
Kurt Kobain looks at the trigger on the gun in his hand and says, �now why did I do that?�
As a ghost you forget why you killed yourself. You may wonder, �now why did I do that?�

Homemakers being respected for their choice and in turn using their time towards community efforts, like hot lunches in schools.

The disfunctionality of the american family no matter what nationality.
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